Maybe We'll Make It After All
by newyorkace
Summary: One assignment gone wrong has left them reeling in a way no one could have imagined. It left a scar too deep to repair. Is it possible to come back from such a devastating downfall? Tony/Ziva, AU, One-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: Another story I had previously posted to Tumblr while I was trying to write one fic per night shift I worked. This was inspired while listening to "Maybe We'll Make It After All" by Stages and Stereos. The song breaks my heart and from it I worked up the courage to destroy my babies' world and begin to build it back up again all in a few short pages. _**

**_This is extremely AU and has no ties to any actual undercover operations in any of the episodes or any of the aired cases. It's just a look at what might happen if something were to go seriously wrong._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or the song._**

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_**Maybe We'll Make It After All**_

The shrill of the phone ringing wakes him from his nightmare. The dark of the room and pounding in his head remind him though that this isn't another nightmare, it's just the shipwreck that has become his life.

He musters enough strength to get off the couch and move to the kitchen, crunching a few boxes and beer bottles along the way. The caller continues to talk to the dead-end that is the answering machine, but the haze of depression renders him unable to identify its owner. It could be Abby or McGee, or even Palmer. Ziva has probably called a few times to make sure he has showered and eaten. The only one who hasn't attempted to reach out is Gibbs. Maybe it's because he can't understand how Tony can be so broken or he just can't bear to see it; chances are he just can't find the words to explain everything that has become of this.

Without giving the machine a second glance, he hits the delete button harder than needed. These days he takes his frustration and anger out on the small things; it's the only way he knows how. He can't carry a gun anymore; his pysch evaluation took care of that. Never in his life would he have imagined that one failed undercover operation would take his whole life with it.

NCIS was his life. It was a part of him. It was his family.

Now it was gone. The trauma to his body and to his mind took that way from him. Desk duty was too hard. It came with the constant reminder that he had failed in the worst way possible.

Now he has nothing.

Sometimes he wishes he had left when he had the chance. He could have run away from all the hurt, all the pain, and the constant reminders that this life would never be the same. The plane ticket had been purchased and an apartment was waiting for him across the country. A new start to life could have been his for the taking. But something stopped him. Running away had never been his style, and he refused to let this make him a coward.

He looks down at the confines of his wheel chair in disgust and desolation. A deep breath escapes him, and he opens the fridge, grabbing another beer.

_I guess I failed at that too._

X

She messes with the keys, begging her hands to stop trembling. The shaking has been her constant companion these days. She blames it on the stress. The team has been one short for the past two months which means her and McGee have been picking up the slack.

The door finally gives loose, and her eyes settle upon the real cause of her tremors.

She throws the keys down on the coffee table, and slowly starts picking up the boxes. The beer bottles follow, one for each of the tears she has shed and each of his broken dreams. She washes the dishes, empties the trash, and takes a shower.

That's the only place she will let herself be vulnerable. She can't show her feelings; she has to be strong for him, for them.

The apartment goes dark, and she climbs into the empty side of the bed. An eerie quiet falls throughout the room and that scares her. The quiet is her enemy. So she inches closer to him, close enough to rest her head on his chest; it is only then that she can hear his shallow breathing and soft heartbeat.

And she let's herself breathe easy.

Just as she closes her eyes and feels sleep pulling at her, his voice breaks through the never-ending silence, "I'm sorry."

"Tony, you don't have to apologize," Ziva hushes, trying to keep the surprise from showing. It's the first sign of emotion he's shown since the incident.

"No. Ziva, I am so sorry," he repeats one last time before the sobs rack his body.

All she can do is hold him tighter and whisper words of comfort. She's not sure if it's the right thing to say, the right thing to do, but she does know one thing.

For the first time in two months, she knows he's going to be alright; they are going to be alright.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I decided to continue this story because of the strong opinions put forth by the two reviewers, and they hit me emotionally. I realized that maybe with this story I could achieve something I'm not normally able to do. Usually I don't write long, plot driven stories. But with this I am going to try. So bear with me, as I decided the direction to take this story and how to tell it. x Ashley_

_Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS or any of its characters._

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**_Chapter 2_**

_She can feel the caffeine pounding through her veins making her jittery. Her heart is beating out of her chest, and it's almost as if she's having an out of body experience. A warm hand settles on the small of her back, offering her silent support. She offers Gibbs a small smile, willing her breathing to even and her heart beat to settle. _

_In anticipation, they both square their bodies to the large screen in MTAC. Gibbs nods wordlessly to the computer tech to their left, and a rainbow of horizontal lines flicker across the screen. A moment later, a rugged, hastily groomed man appears across from them. His hair is longer than he usually prefers it, falling unceremoniously across his forehead with the slightest movement. If she peers closely, she can make out the light stubble along his chin meaning that he hasn't shaved yet this morning. He looks older than he when he left._

x

Involuntarily, she shoots straight up in bed, clutching at her sheets. One by one she eases each finger until her grip on the Jersey cotton is no more. Out of habit, she makes an attempt to wipe the sweat off her brow only to find it dry.

"Another nightmare?" His quiet, broken voice cracks through the fog, but startles her nonetheless.

She stares back at him with a blank expression, trying to gauge his emotions. He's sitting at attention with his back against the headboard and his body angled slightly in her direction. His green eyes are illuminated by the moonlight peaking through the blinds, but she can easily see the clouds that have dimmed them for months. He just gazes back at her, his face painted with pain, guilt, and what she thinks may be fear. Her mind wills him to say something, anything, just to keep this new line of communication open. Just hours ago, he had let her in, and she'd be damned if she let him shut down again. She wouldn't lose him now, not when she had been handed the smallest sliver of hope.

After a few minutes of silence, which feel like a lifetime, she knows he won't be the first to speak. He's too ashamed of what he's done, and he doesn't want to keep disappointing her; she knows this much, because she knows him, no matter how far he has slipped into this darkness.

"No, not tonight," she whispers into the night, offering him a small smile.

Tony shakes his head, and she's pretty sure he doesn't believe her. "It's a first."

His comment catches her off guard. She is acutely aware that this is the first night since the incident that she hasn't been haunted by the particular scene. But how does he know that? Each and every time she has woken in the middle of night in silent screams, he has been sleeping deftly beside her. She knows because his breathing never changes, and his body has yet to flinch.

"I am depressed, Ziva, not dead." His words are clinical and clouded with lack of feeling, but he instantly regrets them. Her face falls and her eyes suddenly find the darkened TV fascinating. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and his voice cracks as he reaches a few inches to his right, searching for her hand.

Her entire body flinches at the unexpected contact, but soon yields to the familiarity that has been absent for so long. It's the first time he's made any attempt to touch her, and she feels this ice-glazed situation they have been trapped in thaw further.

"But you were always sleeping," Ziva ponders softly, interlacing their fingers and taking advantage of the moment. She lets out a shaky breath when he makes no attempt to pull away.

Tony's whole body sags back into the bed, "I've mastered the art of pretend. How was I supposed to comfort you when I am the root of all your pain."

It's not a question as much as it is a statement. The blame he puts on himself is evident, but unnecessary. "Tony, this is not your fault."

"You say that but in some ways, in every way, it is." His voice is so close, but with his words, he seems so far away.

She wants to argue, and go into a long lecture, ticking off every reason as to why this is not his fault. The accident wasn't his fault. His injuries weren't his fault. Her nightmares weren't his fault.

He hadn't even wanted to go.

But she decides against voicing her opinion at the moment, and simply sighs. She lays back down on her, and he follows suit, so that they are lying side-by-side. The only contact they share is their fingers laced with the other's.

It's not what she wants. She wants to be able to hold him like she did amidst his breakdown just hours before. But now is not the time, and she will take what she can get. It's enough for now.

"Will you tell me about them?" Tony asks, quietly and she barely hears them. She hesitates which prompts him to explain, "The nightmares, I mean."

Ziva lets out a strangled breath, but quickly gathers her composure. That is not what he needs right now. He wouldn't understand. "Not tonight. But maybe someday."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** The motivation to finish this chapter was brought to you by tonight's feel-induced and heart shattering episode. I'm still far from recovered, but the writing is helping.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

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The abrupt sound of her alarm echoes loudly throughout their bedroom. A hand reaches out to silence the intruding sound and, after a few moments effort, the room is draped in silence again. She runs a hand through her just-slept-in hair and chances a glance at the body beside her. Tony is still sleeping soundly, or so she assumes, and his soft snores fall in time with the rise of his chest.

After the long, rather sleepless night they endured she forces back the urge to run her fingers through his hair. Any slight movement could wake him up and she knows that the uninterrupted slumber can only be good for him. So she balls her hands into fists and pushes away the covers, bracing herself for the long day ahead.

She showers, dresses, downs a cup of coffee and jots a short note on a napkin before grabbing her keys off the counter and making her way out the door.

X

The familiar sound of a closing door rings in his ears, and stirs him awake. Out of habit, he reaches a hand out across the vast bed only to come in contact with the evidence of her departure. His warm hand recoils from the cold sheets, and he lets out a broken sigh. Despite his recent lack of emotion, he hates when she leaves; it only makes the loneliness that surrounds him more intense, more real.

A clock across the room reads 6am, and he knows he should try to fall back to sleep. He closes his eyes and silently urges his body to do as it's told, but he knows it's no use. Sleep never comes easily unless she's next to him. Most people assume he sleeps his days away in a depression-induced drunken stupor but they couldn't be more wrong. The days are filled with mind-numbing television shows, countless movies, and thinking; he thinks himself to death. The only place he can find rest from most of the pain is when she makes her way to their bedroom every night. It is then, and only then, that he is able to fall into an only slightly fitful sleep. And even then, his nights are interrupted by her haunting nightmares; her pain only adds to his own pain.

Pushing himself to a sitting position at the end of the bed, he allows his legs to dangle and he feels the blood surging to fill his veins. In recent days, the feeling has almost managed to completely wave away the numbness. He would be lying if he hasn't played with the idea of possibly walking again. The doctors preached of the likelihood, but Tony wasn't sure he wanted to put faith in their words. If trying meant possible failure, that possible failure meant additional heartbreak to the ones closest to him; he didn't want to play that game, at least not yet.

And then he remembers Ziva's face last night, and every night since his incident. The fear, worry, and exhaustion etched in her features are the one constant these days. He would anything to erase those emotions that mar her beautiful face, even if that meant causing him more physical pain. The physical pain he has endured throughout this lifetime doesn't hold a candle to the torture of watching her hurt. So he has come to the resolution that he will try.

But he's going to need help.

After changing into the close he laid out on the bedside the table the night before, he grabs the sliding board and angles it across the bed and onto the wheelchair. With the additional strength of his arms, he slips out of bed, across the board and into the chair. Wheeling himself out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, he throws on a pot of coffee. It's difficult to reach to reach the high countertops, but he's learned to make it work .Once he pours himself a cup from the fresh cup of liquid caffeine, he perches himself at the head of the dining room table, where one of the chairs has since been moved to the corned to make room for the wheelchair.

He reaches for a napkin to use as a make-shift coaster, but the first on he grabs is out the ordinary. It's got messy words scrawled haphazardly across that faint design.

_I love you. Z._

Three words and one letter. It's not so much a grand gesture or declaration of intense emotional feelings. Instead, it's simple; a simple, everyday phrase that they haven't been verbally exchanging very often in recent weeks. This is her way of letting him know that she is here, and she will be here for the duration. The smile that tugs at his lips feels a bit strange, as though he shouldn't let it be there, but he doesn't fight it. He hasn't smiled in close to two months, and he has to admit that it awakens something in him, something he's been missing.

Her words revive something in him, and he reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. Deftly, he dials a familiar number and listens as each ring reverberates loudly in his ear, reminding him of what he's about to do.

X

_He knocks on the door, and peaks his head into the room. The white walls are brightened by various flower bouquets and balloons, but they don't do much to wash away that eerie hospital smell. The beeping of the monitors hooked up to his best friend's body keeps a steady rhythm. It's quiet, too quiet, and he has to strain to hear the shallow breathes coming from the man in the hospital bed._

"_I'm not dead, McGee," a voice stutters hoarsely. Tony's eyes are still closed, but his comment is enough to usher McGee to the bedside. He pulls up a chair from the corners and slowly sits down. "Why are you here?"_

_McGee doesn't respond at first. Gibbs and Ziva had warned him of this; Tony's lack of response or harsh response to visitors; apparently he doesn't feel worthy of anyone's support. Taking in a deep breath, and blowing it out slowly, he chooses his words carefully. "Why wouldn't I be here, Tony?" Tony's eyes scrunch up tightly, and McGee can't be sure whether it's due to pain or aggravation. A silence settles around them, as Tony seems to refuse to acknowledge the truth of McGee's statement. _

_After what seems like an eternity and McGee has given up all hope of coaxing a response from his partner. Pushing his chair back and turning to leave, a whisper of words from behind bring him to a halt._

"_I screwed up McGee."_

_Still standing, McGee turns to face the emotionally and physically injured man who has replaced his team member, his brother. "You didn't screw up, Tony. It wasn't your fault. It was schedule contact, on NCIS time. You had no idea they had made you. There's nothing you could have done differently." His words are emotional and to the point, but rushed, trying to make Tony understand with little time Tony was offering him._

_Tony instantly grips the white hospital linens, gathering them in his hands, starring hard at his legs. "McGee," his voice shudders failing to hide the sob, "what if I never walk again?"_

_Seeing the struggle ring through Tony's body, McGee finally understands what he really meant by "screwing up". This isn't just about the op, this is about his life._

_With new determination, McGee settles back into the chair besides the bed and grips onto Tony's shoulder trying to ease his friend's pain. "Tony, you will walk again."_

Shaking the memory from his mind, he raises his hand to meet to cool wood of a doorway he hasn't been through in over two months. After their brief conversation in the hospital, the depression overtook what motivation Tony still had and department psych evaluation completely wiped any hope away. He'd stopped returning Abby and his phone calls, and the only reason they knew he was still alive was through updates from Ziva. Despite Tony's rejection, they never lost faith in him.

That is why Tim had responded promptly to the phone call he'd received early this morning. Tony's voice on the other end was full of determination and it prompted McGee to urgently agree to meet him at the apartment.

Three sharp knocks and there is no response. For as eager as Tony was on the phone this morning, it comes to a surprise to McGee to be greeted with such a lackadaisical response. With each minute that passes, his worry heightens. His first instinct is to dial Ziva, but Tony had been adamant that she not know he called. So after another swift knock, McGee reaches down and jostles to door knob, only to find it turn and the door slide open.

His eyes frantically scan the room, and before he can call Tony's name, a rustle from the kitchen beckons him. Rushing to the small area, his breath catches as what he finds. Tony's wheelchair is abandoned haphazardly on its side and Tony is sprawled out on the tile floor parallel struggling to push himself up.

After another failed attempt, he catches McGee's eye. The hint of an attempted smile on his face is betrayed by the sadness in his green eyes, "I need your help."


End file.
